


Use Your Words

by SmutPrince



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Blood Kink, M/M, Masturbation, Self Service, Size Kink, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-25
Updated: 2013-11-27
Packaged: 2018-01-02 15:13:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1058299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmutPrince/pseuds/SmutPrince
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tailgate's had one hell of a day, and with Cyclonus out of the room maybe he can relax. However, he's certainly not expecting to find what he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Imagine

**Author's Note:**

> This is really self indulgent but, you know how it is, man. The OTP. Eventually gonna write another chapter. Threw some humor in this, by the way, so look forward to that.

Tailgate laid back on his berth, visor dimming in exhaustion. With Cyclonus as his roommate, and Tailgate arguably the closest thing the hulking mech had ever had to a friend, the minibot spent the cycle negotiating peace between Tailgate and whatever poor bot the massive mech had decided to pick a fight with. The small mech groaned, burying his servos into his face and ventilating heavily. Why did he always have to be the one to settle Cyclonus's disputes?

As if he'd really needed to ask himself that question. Tailgate's inexplicable desire to please and defend Cyclonus wasn't as inexplicable as one would believe; not with the burning sensation the minibot got in his interface panel every night when he heard the soft, usually innocent grunts of recharge from his roommate. It was sickening, it made Tailgate's tank churn how desperate he was for any form of contact, any form of affection or even acknowledgement, from the violet mech. Tailgate had always been a bot-pleaser but this was an extreme by far.

Tailgate eyed the door wearily, visor brightening with his charge. Cyclonus wouldn't be back for a while ... he'd gone to Swerve's bar to drink, alone in the corner most likely. The mental image was disheartening, oh, but the ever present charge building in Tailgate's panel was enough to forgive him of his selfishness. He would sit down and drink with Cyclonus another day.

That would imply that Cyclonus would care whether or not the 'bomb disposal' unit was there to keep him company. Tailgate batted the thought away huffily.

Six million years of accidental celibacy made the act awkward; sure he hadn't felt like he'd been without self service, or any service for that matter, for six million deca-cycles but his frame reflected the passage of time. Ratchet had, apparently, made adjustments to more than just his legs. Tailgate found that his interface panel had been replaced with a new, unfamiliar one. To his dismay, despite the simplicity an interface panel was supposed to possess, Tailgate's commands for the panel to slide out of the way went unnoted. The minibot huffed in irritation, pawing around in his processor for the prompt.

Already short fused and lit, he didn't search long and instead pawed at the panel, searching for the latch that had better be there. He was not disappointed when a deft servo managed to hook under a seam and spring the panel back, revealing somewhat unfamiliar equipment.

It took everything Tailgate had not to burst out laughing at himself. Apparently Ratchet had taken some liberties with his frame, because, while it was still his spike and valve, Tailgate was met with brightly colored ring around his valve and spike housing. The light was bright blue, as blue as Tailgate’s visor, and it flared dimly against white metal. Tailgate snickered, almost a little embarrassed, as he allowed his spike to extend.

Tailgate whooped when his spike stood fully erect, unable to hold back his giggling. Primus, Ratchet went all out. Both sides of Tailgate's spike were lined with fancy lighting, and his paint job had been intricately done up. The minibot traced a servo up his spike, repressing a shiver and yet another snort. Who knew Ratchet was so ... Tailgate was, for once, at a loss for words. Maybe lecherous? Tailgate shrugged and continued.

The servo around his spike squeezed softly at the tricked-out spike and Tailgate allowed himself a soft moan before he began to work himself over. Tailgate's gasping was muffled by his face mask, and he settled himself back down on to the berth, backstrut arching ever so slightly as his servo slid up and down his spike. A tangy scent filled the air as Tailgate felt his valve lubricate, the fluid running down from his valve to the berth slowly, bright-lit rimming reflecting off the pinkish liquid and giving it a pleasant shimmer.  
Tailgate offlined his optics, despite the delightful display his equipment was presenting, and tried to build up a mental picture. He imagined Cyclonus; Cyclonus's claws felt as though they were ghosting over his frame as he imagined them, _teasing_ transformation seams and nicking sensitive wires. The minibot shuttered at the thought, hiking his pedes up, lying back, and letting his other servo wander past his spike and trace the out rim of his valve, which fluxuated brightly as his arousal built. A short, rounded finger pressed its way in and Tailgate hissed and keened, easing the finger out just slightly before pushing it a little ways farther back in. He didn't much care to go to the medbay for torn valve lining.

It was painful to keep at the pace he was, but Primus if he wasn't tight; it seemed a six million dec-cycle could take its toll on a mech in more ways than one. Oh, but there was a silver lining. With his optics shut as tightly as they were and his finger feeling much larger in his tightness, Tailgate felt as if he were being worked over by Cyclonus. Tailgate quivered beneath his own touch, _no_ , under Cyclonus's touch. A clawed finer deep inside him, yeah.

Cyclonus wasn't one for talking, oh but when it came to the berthroom he was an _animal_. At least, in Tailgate's mind. Tailgate could practically feel Cyclonus cycling softly into his audio as he told him what a good pet he was. How tight he felt, how _eager_ he was to be fragged. Tailgate moved himself over, on his knees then slowly into a bow, optics offlined hard as he continued languidly stroking himself in time with the teasing, circular motions of his stubby finger.

Helm now pressed into the berth, Tailgate rocked smoothly onto his finger, adding another greedily. No, Cyclonus wouldn't lavish him, he'd make him work for it. He'd tease him with it until he was _begging_ to be fragged, begging to overload. And so the fingers were ghosts in Tailgate's valve and the small mech whined at the loss.

"Cyclonus please," Tailgate whined, but he held up his character. _No, Tailgate._ "Cyclonus," Tailgate punctuated this whimper with a undulation of his hips. "I need you," he gasped, feeling his cooling fans work even harder at the scenario Tailgate was acting out. _You need me to what, Tailgate?_ Cyclonus's field would bear down on his, make Tailgate bow beneath him under its power. The miniformer convulsed slightly, his pedes twitching involuntarily. "I need you t-to ... I need you to frag me. Make me overload. Let me overload. Please, Cyclonus ... "

And so the fingers returned and Tailgate curled them and twisted them and drew them in and out roughly, despite the stinging, because that's what Cyclonus would do. What Tailgate would _want_ Cyclonus to do. A servo reached Tailgate's spike again and some sort of serendipitous rhythm was built between Tailgate's servos and he felt his spark pulse angrily against his chassis as the charge crackled down his spinal strut.

"Oh. _Oh Primus_ , Cyclonus-!" Tailgate moaned, jamming his fingers into his valve roughly as his movements became jerky and his knees spread wider still as overload crashed down on him, flooding his central processor and nearly frying his circuits. Tailgate's visor pulsed with light brightly and his optics shot open only to see static as he shook with overload; transfluid splattered the berth and Tailgate's abdominal plating, seeping slowly into transformations seams. Tailgate's abused valve quivered and rippled, lubricant gushing out in time with its pulsing, dribbling around and down Tailgate's servo and thighs. Tailgate cycled heavily for a moment, shuttering his optics in fatigue, looking like the sort of depraved bot you saw on interface holodiscs.

The post overload glow died down quickly, though, with an amused chuckle from the other side of the room. Tailgate sat up immediately, too fast, and winced as he was forced to yank his fingers from his valve. Off balance and static still clouding his vision, it took Tailgate a few clicks to register where the noise and come from, and several more to realize just who it was that sat in his berthroom, who had witnessed the depraved act he'd just committed.

"C-cylonus!"


	2. Beg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tailgate's dreams come true. Lucky afthole.

Tailgate froze in place, sitting on his pedes, his servo still coated in his lubricants, his thighs splattered with his transfluid. Cyclonus was sitting in the berth opposite his, legs crossed and normally stoic expression flickering on and off with amusement and ... something else. Tailgate failed to identify what that something else was, however: he was too distracted by the roaring of energon in his audials, his frame molten hot with embarrassment. "H-how long have you been there?" Tailgate whimpered, his voice breaking with unease.

The much larger mech shrugged casually, crimson optics not breaking from Tailgate's blue ones, though his helm tilted to the side and a slight grin played on his lip plates. The constant visual contact made Tailgate shiver, his back plating shifting subconsciously. "It was foolish of you not to lock the door if you didn't want to be seen," Cyclonus said flatly, arching an optic ridge when Tailgate's visor flared brightly in embarrassment. He'd been so stupid, so, so, so stupid. How the frag did he forget to lock the berthroom door?  
Tailgate was torn from his internal scolding when Cyclonus uncrossed his legs, pedes thudding on the ground. Terror took Tailgate as he watched Cyclonus rise from his berth and approach. Tailgate shrank back where he knelt, turning his helm, unable to look up at the taller mech, shame burning the faceplates behind his mask. "Tell me Tailgate ...” Cyclonus's voice rumbled and echoed in the otherwise silent room, making Tailgate's optics shutter slightly and his frame flinch. "What is it that you find so appealing about me that you'd frag yourself while screaming my name, looking like some desperate pleasurebot?"

Oh Primus, that voice coated the air like a thick honey and seeped deep into audials. Tailgate couldn't bring himself to respond, too caught up in trying to repress his trembling to slight twitching. The minibot could only beg Primus himself that Cyclonus didn't notice how his valve lubricated with every word he ground out. Said mech didn't seem to notice; that, or, he welcomed it. Oh, there was a thought. Tailgate's servos clenched.

Cyclonus continued, still hovering over Tailgate, at his berthside. He loomed, casting a shadow over the smaller mech, enveloping him in his much more powerful field and by the allspark if it didn't make Tailgate's spark throb with charge. "Is it how infinitely more powerful I am than you ... do you get some kind of sick pleasure from the idea of me taking you ... ?" Tailgate's vents hitched at that. "I-"

"Or maybe it's my physical appearance, my claws ... Does the idea of me raking my claws down your puny little form make you squirm, Tailgate?" Cyclonus's words seeped from his vocalizer, every word a near purr. The minibot in question could feel Cyclonus's ventilations, hot, on his frame and he shakily looked up at the larger mech. Once Tailgate met those burning optics with his own there was no escaping it, he was held by the searing gaze and the mere thought of turning away now seemed impossible, painful even.  
A spluttering ventilation. "Y-ye-" Tailgate was cut off as Cyclonus continued. "Or perhaps it's the fact that you and I are such vastly different people that to compare us would be infinitesimal, that you lie so lowly beneath my feet that even the thought of me brushing up against you is enough for your engines to sing in rapture?" Tailgate gasped and a claw traced his thigh paneling and he arched into the touch, his cooling fans long since making a racket. "Y-yes!" He squeaked, keening as the claw withdrew from his frame.  
"But the most logical assumption would be ... “Cyclonus dipped down, optic level with Tailgate and moving forward so that the minibot moved back. "That you, Tailgate, just love the sound of my voice."

Tailgate nodded frantically, servos clenching and unclenching. "Yes ...” he gasped, his valve clenching sporadically, desperate for contact. "Y-yes ... I-I ... your voice I don't ... I can't help myself I just ... " Tailgate's frantic stammering ended in static as Cyclonus roughly pinched the lubricant-stained plating of Tailgate's thighs. The minibot moaned brokenly, uncaring of how desperate he sounded and leaning into the painful touch. "C-cyclonus ...”  
"Tailgate, tell me, how do you think the others would react to see you like this. See you," A razor sharp claw nicked Tailgate's left thigh and dug under a transformation seam, making Tailgate's helm fall back and his vocalizer give a staticky cry. “... practically dripping for me. You'd like that wouldn't you ... " Cyclonus backed Tailgate onto the berth, forcing him to lie in his own transfluid. Tailgate whimpered uncomfortably, only for it to end in a shriek when Cyclonus's claws pulled roughly at his hip plating. Cyclonus continued, despite Tailgate's outbursts. "Your valve seeping wet and leaking out your interface panel, right in front of everyone, because the sound of my voice against your audials is just too much for you to take."

Tailgate choked a sob when Cyclonus quickly raked his claw under his plating, leaving painful scrapes in his quake. The minibot arched off the berth, his hips looking for some sort of purchase, desperate for any contact. "Cyclonus please," he begged, coolant falling from his optics. "Please, please, frag me already, please!"

A deep chuckle and a raised optic ridge made Tailgate's spike twitch. "You're rather bold, assuming I was to frag you, want to feel your tight little valve constrict around my spike until you've overloaded so hard you can't even move." Cyclonus slid his claws out from under Tailgate's plating, the faintest glow of energon on his claw tips, and slid his servos down the smaller mech's sides. Tailgate trembled beneath Cyclonus's touch, feather light and completely different from the touches earlier. "As much as I would love to frag you raw, Tailgate, I'm going to make you work for it. I'm going to slowly build you up until you're teetering on the edge," Cyclonus punctuated this by clenching his servos roughly on Tailgate's waist.

Charge crackled across Tailgate's frame and he shook on the berth, heaving as Cyclonus lowered his helm to his. Thin lips mouthed at the edge of Tailgate's mask, the smaller mech lolling his head to the side to allow easier access. Cyclonus began trailing down to the crook of Tailgate's neck, flicking his glossa out between two fuel lines. Tailgate's hips bucked involuntarily as Cyclonus's glossa probed and slid between the sensitive wiring. The roaring of Cyclonus's engines was thunderous and Tailgate felt it suffocate him, becoming dizzy.

His spike flush between them and pulsating angrily, Tailgate shifted his hips, thankful for the friction. It didn't stay for long, however, because Cyclonus slammed Tailgate's hips to the berth, pinning him and rendering him immobile. The minibot whined in protest, only cut short when Cyclonus bit down, hard, on a bundle of wiring. A sharp cry tore through Tailgate's vocalizer as Cyclonus drew energon from the wounds, lapping lazily at what escaped.

Cyclonus, frame curved near painfully as he hoisted Tailgate's hips up to his stomach, pressing Tailgate's valve flush against the hard metal of his armor. Tailgate's spark felt as though it would burn a hole right through him as he shifted his hips desperately against Cyclonus, his valve leaving smears of lubricant against Cyclonus's frame. Cyclonus's engine purred in approval, unlike Tailgate's, whose spluttered and buzzed as his frame became far too overheated for its own good. The glossa on his wound withdrew reluctantly and Tailgate pried opened his optics to watch as Cyclonus shut his and swiped his glossa across his dentae, relishing the taste of Tailgate's energon. Oh.  
Those piercing optics slammed open again as Cyclonus let out a snarl, pressing Tailgate hard against his abdominal plating and grinding against him. Tailgate cried out, servos clenched to his sides. He could feel Cyclonus's spike against his aft and he wondered absently when he'd retracted his panel when a particularly rough thrust sent sparks up Tailgate's backstrut. A shaky moan fell from Cyclonus as he watched Tailgate writhe beneath him, teetering on the edge; the much larger mech forced himself to pull away. Tailgate whined in protest.

Cyclonus fixed his spike against Tailgate's valve, sliding it against that slick heat slowly, painfully so. Tailgate tried to move with him but the much larger mech held him in place. "Tell me what you want Tailgate, tell me how badly you want my spike," he growled, bringing his spike to a slow halt. Tailgate practically screamed. "I-I-I want it. I want it so bad Cyclonus please, please, please, please-!" Tailgate swallowed thickly, everything was so hot, and he felt like he'd melt to scrap at any second. "Please give me your spike! F-frag me until I burn out and overload, Primus above, Cyclonus, I'll do anything!"

Tailgate's intakes were heavy, heaving; everything was overheating and in his desperation he reached upwards to Cyclonus, servos grappling desperately for those wide shoulders. "I wa-want to feel you fill me up and then so-some. I-I-I want your spike!" he sobbed, his frame wracking with sobs. "Cyclonus ple-" Tailgate screamed as Cyclonus rammed himself inside the smaller bot, hilting himself into his valve. Cyclonus roared, deep, before pulling out slowly and shallowly thrusting back inside of Tailgate.  
The bomb disposal unit could only moan and writhe beneath Cyclonus as he filled him up, nearly tearing his valve lining. It was painful at first, despite having just fingered himself earlier. Oh, but he'd be lying if it wasn't good just to know Cyclonus was inside him. Tailgate's tiny servos gripped tightly to Cyclonus’s shoulders awkwardly. His whole frame was enveloped by Cyclonus, who pressed him down into the berth relentlessly. Tailgate wrapped his pedes around Cyclonus's waist, desperately moving against the purple mech, whose hands were leaving dents in Tailgate's hip plating.

"Oh, frag, Cyclonus I-!" Tailgate shuttered as Cyclonus's spike overstretched his valve just beyond its capacity. Cyclonus's engines rumbled as he rammed into Tailgate, snatching his hand from the other's hip and gripping his servo. In a dazed confusion, Tailgate barely registered when Cyclonus bit down into his plating, piercing the fuel lines beneath and leaving more energon to run down his glossa. Cyclonus's paced picked up, hips pistoning into the smaller mech, his other servo having found the smaller mech's spike and began pumping it barely in time with his thrusts. Tailgate's optics flared brightly, he was sure he'd busted the lighting, before he arched entirely off the berth, clinging to Cyclonus as overload crashed down on him.

The valve constricting around his spike fluctuated and Cyclonus yelled into the wounds he'd made before thrusting once, twice, three times and emptying himself in the wreck of a mech beneath him.

The pair heaved, cooling fans desperately trying to cool down their systems. Tailgate, pinned to the berth, felt a sweet soreness envelope him as his processor managed to uncloud. If only this would last forever. Sadly, though, it couldn't. Tailgate protested as Cyclonus pulled out of him, letting loose a mixture of lubricants and transfluid. Maybe a little bit of energon, but Tailgate would worry about that later, when he wasn't so swept up in the fact that he and Tailgate had just fragged each other's processors silly.  
Cyclonus propped himself up on his arms, looking down to access the damage. Besides the huge mess of fluids coating Tailgate's thighs and the berth, not much. Cyclonus looked up and was surprised to see Tailgate gazing up at him sleepily, his mask having retracted to reveal a satisfied smile. The smaller mech went to move towards Cyclonus, but winced at the pain that shot through his systems. Maybe he'd been a little too careless after all. Cyclonus vented in irritation and lent down, mouth flat. "What?"

  
Tailgate managed to shift upwards and plant an affectionate kiss on Cyclonus’s jaw before lying back down and turning bashfully. Cyclonus stared blankly down at the smaller mech. "What the pit was that?" Tailgate shrugged, unable to look up. The taller mech rolled his optics, leaning down to plant his own sort of kiss on Tailgate's lips. The smaller bot moaned happily into the kiss, grateful that he didn't have to move much. When they pulled apart, Cyclonus caught a glimpse at Tailgate's still bleeding arm. "You should get that checked out," he murmured before rising off Tailgate and leaning on his side, only to make a face of disgust when he laid in a puddle of their transfluid. "I'd think we'd do better with a trip to the wash racks first."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that was satisfactory. ;w; Thinkin' about writing Whirl/Tailgate/Cyclonus eventually because that pairing is tragically under supplied with material. <333 Hope y'all liked it. ;w;


End file.
